(07) → maybe you and i will fall in love
After the inception job, Eames doesn’t see Arthur for a year and a half. They meet up somewhere in England to shoot the shit. It comes out of nowhere, Eames thinks, this burning itch deep down in his chest to see where Arthur’s been-what he’s seen, what he’s done, who he’s been with.
“Darling,” Eames greets him, kissing his cheek and letting his lips linger a second too long.
“Don’t call me that,” Arthur whispers, fingers Eames’ shirt. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
It isn’t the first time Arthur’s said this, but it’s the first time it’s made Eames shiver.
*
Eames finds out, quite easily, that everything has changed.
They go back to his apartment and fuck, stretch out lazily along the length of the bed and smoke until they can’t feel their fingers. “How are the children?” Eames asks quietly. Arthur’s wrist flicks just enough for Eames to wonder if he’ll drop his cigarette, set the whole damn place on fire. “With Miles,” he says. “When Miles dies, they’ll probably go into foster care. I don’t know.” He sucks in a breath, closes his eyes. “I don’t fucking know.”
Dom died just under a year ago. Shot down by a Cobol agent right in his own backyard. It was perfect poetry, nine stanzas into an epic and peppered with blood. Eames learned from another extractor that Arthur was there within an hour, taking care of the funeral, helping Philippa and James move in with their grandfather, crying his fucking heart out like it’d tear its way right out of his chest. Perhaps it did. Or perhaps it’d gone cold. Lying here in the middle of dreary, rainy England, Eames wants to burrow against Arthur’s chest and curl himself around the cold, quiet organ. Wants to hear the thump thump of it against his fingertips until he’s gone numb.
“It’s not your job to know. I bet you feel guilty, though,” Eames notes thoughtfully. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”
Arthur sets his cigarette in the notch of the ashtray. “Fuck you,” he bites out, getting out of bed and pulling on his boxers. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
Eames glances over at him and goes back to smoking.
*
Eames was never close with Dom. He respected his work and was nice enough to keep him at an arm’s length. Just long enough to use him as a resource if he got himself into too much trouble. But aside from that, Dom was nothing to him. And he certainly didn’t feel enough towards him to be bothered by his death. It had been expected, anyway. Anyone could see why someone as mentally unstable as Dom was a threat to the dream industry, no matter what jobs he’d taken on.
Arthur, on the other hand, had been as close to Dom as Eames could imagine one to be. He was furiously loyal, but Eames always thought that had something to do with Mal.
He doesn’t expect Arthur to stick around. He knows he’s dabbled in jobs for the past few months, but nothing stuck. And nothing would, maybe, if Dom wasn’t the one leading the team. He expects Arthur to go, but three days later and he’s still lingering around the area like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Eames calls him up and invites him to a cute little café. He stirs through his tea absent-mindedly. “Why haven’t you left?”
Arthur, the gargoyle, sits perfectly still, hands in his lap. He looks tired in a way Eames could never understand. He worked himself too hard, pushed himself too far until there was nothing left. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know anything,” Eames seethes quietly. “You didn’t know what to do with the kids, either, or how to handle Dom’s death. Pull yourself to-fucking-gether,”
The blow Arthur deals to his face doesn’t surprise him. The fact that he sticks around after that does.
*
The thing is, Eames doesn’t like how much things have changed with Arthur. There’s no enjoyment in poking fun at someone who’s given up on themselves. It’s rather pathetic, really, and Eames doesn’t get where it all went wrong.
Arthur curls up next to him on the bed. He’s had one too many drinks and he can barely sit himself up. “You can fuck me, if you want,” he mumbles, reaching for his pants and sloppily undoing the buttons.
“Oh, I can? I can fuck you, if I want?” Eames shoves him, kicks him in the leg so he stops trying to undress himself. “That’s so fucking sweet of you, you pretentious asshole.”
Arthur pushes his foot away, but Eames gets pissed and nudges him in the stomach.
Arthur throws up all over the floor.
There’s a moment where Eames wants to leave him there and get the fuck out of the country, but for some reason (he’ll never know why) he cleans up after him and rubs his back until he falls asleep.
*
“I don’t want you to stay here,” Eames says. They’re outside. It’s raining and they’re both soaked to the bone. The taxis are slower than usual and Arthur doesn’t seem to be in a rush to flag one down. “I want you to go. And then I want you to come visit me. I’ll miss you, you know. But you’re pissing me off now.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything until they’re back at Eames’ place. He’s shivering and his fingers are cold when he unbuttons Eames’ shirt. “I fucking hated you for so long,” he breathes, pulling off Eames’ undershirt and pushing his pants down. “I still do, I think. I don’t even know.”
“You don’t know anything, I told you.” Eames pushes him down on the bed, slides his pants down and shoves his hand in his boxers. Arthur shivers again, but this time it’s not because of the cold.
*
Arthur goes back to the states the next day. Eames will argue to the death that this is for the best.
*
Eames doesn’t see Arthur again for another few months. He tells himself he doesn’t miss the fucker. And he doesn’t, for the most part.
Arthur calls him late one evening. He’s most likely drunk again. “I wish you didn’t tell me to go,” he mumbles.
Eames hears him drop something in the background. “You make me mad.”
“I always made you mad.”
“It’s different now.”
It’s different now because it isn’t fun anymore, Eames wants to say. It’s different now because Dom is six feet under and Arthur’s being held together by string and a bottle of vodka.
“Fuck you,” Arthur slurs. Eames hears him make an attempt to hang up the phone, but it must slip out of Arthur’s hand because he can still hear him breathe.
“Fuck you,” he says again, and hangs up.
*
*
*
It takes two years after that phone call for things to change.
Cobol makes an attempt to get to Arthur after a botched job. Arthur dodges two attacks before they get him. He’s shot down somewhere in California and Eames doesn’t find out until a week afterwards. He isn’t one for romantic gestures. Getting there a week after he finds out seems good enough to him.
When he gets there, Arthur’s packing his things up in a duffel bag.
Eames doesn’t say anything at first. He watches him, keeping a mental log of the way Arthur carries himself, how he favors his left side. He wants to kiss him quite terribly.
“Come with me,” he suggests, leaning against the doorway. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and takes a drag.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Arthur points out, zipping up the bag.
“Tell them to stop me. See what happens,” he says. Eames waits and watches the slightest quirk form at the edge of Arthur’s mouth, sees a flash of a dimple.
“Come with me,” Eames says again, and this time, Arthur follows.
*
On the car ride home, Eames thinks they might be getting somewhere. Finally.
Eames is completely exhausted from his flight over and Arthur’s in the passenger seat in a hospital gown and a pair of jeans. It isn’t endearing at all. He wants to go home and sleep for the next three weeks, if Arthur would let him. Maybe they’ll fuck some time in between.
Arthur turns the radio up, leans back against the seat and starts singing, and Eames chokes out a laugh.
“Put your head on my shouuuuulder,” he belts out. “Hold me in your arms, baby.”
Eames tosses his cigarette out the window (fuck it, he thinks), drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Squeeze me oh so tight, show me that you love me tooo.”
*
When Arthur’s feeling well enough, they fuck. This time, they do it right.
“I wanted to hit you,” Eames says, sliding his hands under Arthur’s shirt, bunching it up before pulling it off. “That time you told me to fuck you. That I could if I wanted to.” He kisses a trail over his chest, his neck, just under his jaw. “I hated you.”
“I know,” Arthur says, a little breathlessly. “I hated you, too.”
“Why?” Eames asks, pulling off Arthur’s boxers and mouthing against the inside of his thigh.
“I don’t know.”
Eames’ breath hitches and he licks a stripe along Arthur’s hip. “You don’t know anything.”
*
“I’m going back to England for a few weeks,” Eames says, straddling Arthur’s hips. There’s a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and Arthur grabs it, blows smoke into his face. Eames leans in, kisses him furiously, and Arthur pulls away pink-lipped and flushed.
“Why did you let yourself go like that?” Eames is only asking because he doesn’t want it to happen again. Because he doesn’t want the ups and downs of something he can’t comprehend. Because Arthur could be wound up so tightly around his finger or be so far away there’s nothing left. It doesn’t make much sense to him, how Arthur can just float away like a ghost sometimes. But he does. He does, he does.
“I didn’t know how to keep it together,” he admits. “Dom-“ he starts, stops himself because he doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe he doesn’t know how to say it. That much, Eames understands.
“Don’t,” Eames says, pressing a finger to his lips. “I’m sorry I made you throw up that one time,” he grins.
Arthur narrows his eyes, fingers skimming up Eames’ sides. “I’m sorry I hung up on you.”
Eames sits down, takes his cigarette back. “Put your head on my shoulder,” he sing-songs.
Arthur laughs, leans back, watches the way Eames’ lips move against the cigarette. “How do you tolerate that song?” Eames asks bemusedly.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know anything,” Eames whispers affectionately, sliding his cigarette between Arthur’s lips.
fin.
a/n: this is the song they're singing.
“Darling,” Eames greets him, kissing his cheek and letting his lips linger a second too long.
“Don’t call me that,” Arthur whispers, fingers Eames’ shirt. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
It isn’t the first time Arthur’s said this, but it’s the first time it’s made Eames shiver.
*
Eames finds out, quite easily, that everything has changed.
They go back to his apartment and fuck, stretch out lazily along the length of the bed and smoke until they can’t feel their fingers. “How are the children?” Eames asks quietly. Arthur’s wrist flicks just enough for Eames to wonder if he’ll drop his cigarette, set the whole damn place on fire. “With Miles,” he says. “When Miles dies, they’ll probably go into foster care. I don’t know.” He sucks in a breath, closes his eyes. “I don’t fucking know.”
Dom died just under a year ago. Shot down by a Cobol agent right in his own backyard. It was perfect poetry, nine stanzas into an epic and peppered with blood. Eames learned from another extractor that Arthur was there within an hour, taking care of the funeral, helping Philippa and James move in with their grandfather, crying his fucking heart out like it’d tear its way right out of his chest. Perhaps it did. Or perhaps it’d gone cold. Lying here in the middle of dreary, rainy England, Eames wants to burrow against Arthur’s chest and curl himself around the cold, quiet organ. Wants to hear the thump thump of it against his fingertips until he’s gone numb.
“It’s not your job to know. I bet you feel guilty, though,” Eames notes thoughtfully. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”
Arthur sets his cigarette in the notch of the ashtray. “Fuck you,” he bites out, getting out of bed and pulling on his boxers. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
Eames glances over at him and goes back to smoking.
*
Eames was never close with Dom. He respected his work and was nice enough to keep him at an arm’s length. Just long enough to use him as a resource if he got himself into too much trouble. But aside from that, Dom was nothing to him. And he certainly didn’t feel enough towards him to be bothered by his death. It had been expected, anyway. Anyone could see why someone as mentally unstable as Dom was a threat to the dream industry, no matter what jobs he’d taken on.
Arthur, on the other hand, had been as close to Dom as Eames could imagine one to be. He was furiously loyal, but Eames always thought that had something to do with Mal.
He doesn’t expect Arthur to stick around. He knows he’s dabbled in jobs for the past few months, but nothing stuck. And nothing would, maybe, if Dom wasn’t the one leading the team. He expects Arthur to go, but three days later and he’s still lingering around the area like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Eames calls him up and invites him to a cute little café. He stirs through his tea absent-mindedly. “Why haven’t you left?”
Arthur, the gargoyle, sits perfectly still, hands in his lap. He looks tired in a way Eames could never understand. He worked himself too hard, pushed himself too far until there was nothing left. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know anything,” Eames seethes quietly. “You didn’t know what to do with the kids, either, or how to handle Dom’s death. Pull yourself to-fucking-gether,”
The blow Arthur deals to his face doesn’t surprise him. The fact that he sticks around after that does.
*
The thing is, Eames doesn’t like how much things have changed with Arthur. There’s no enjoyment in poking fun at someone who’s given up on themselves. It’s rather pathetic, really, and Eames doesn’t get where it all went wrong.
Arthur curls up next to him on the bed. He’s had one too many drinks and he can barely sit himself up. “You can fuck me, if you want,” he mumbles, reaching for his pants and sloppily undoing the buttons.
“Oh, I can? I can fuck you, if I want?” Eames shoves him, kicks him in the leg so he stops trying to undress himself. “That’s so fucking sweet of you, you pretentious asshole.”
Arthur pushes his foot away, but Eames gets pissed and nudges him in the stomach.
Arthur throws up all over the floor.
There’s a moment where Eames wants to leave him there and get the fuck out of the country, but for some reason (he’ll never know why) he cleans up after him and rubs his back until he falls asleep.
*
“I don’t want you to stay here,” Eames says. They’re outside. It’s raining and they’re both soaked to the bone. The taxis are slower than usual and Arthur doesn’t seem to be in a rush to flag one down. “I want you to go. And then I want you to come visit me. I’ll miss you, you know. But you’re pissing me off now.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything until they’re back at Eames’ place. He’s shivering and his fingers are cold when he unbuttons Eames’ shirt. “I fucking hated you for so long,” he breathes, pulling off Eames’ undershirt and pushing his pants down. “I still do, I think. I don’t even know.”
“You don’t know anything, I told you.” Eames pushes him down on the bed, slides his pants down and shoves his hand in his boxers. Arthur shivers again, but this time it’s not because of the cold.
*
Arthur goes back to the states the next day. Eames will argue to the death that this is for the best.
*
Eames doesn’t see Arthur again for another few months. He tells himself he doesn’t miss the fucker. And he doesn’t, for the most part.
Arthur calls him late one evening. He’s most likely drunk again. “I wish you didn’t tell me to go,” he mumbles.
Eames hears him drop something in the background. “You make me mad.”
“I always made you mad.”
“It’s different now.”
It’s different now because it isn’t fun anymore, Eames wants to say. It’s different now because Dom is six feet under and Arthur’s being held together by string and a bottle of vodka.
“Fuck you,” Arthur slurs. Eames hears him make an attempt to hang up the phone, but it must slip out of Arthur’s hand because he can still hear him breathe.
“Fuck you,” he says again, and hangs up.
*
*
*
It takes two years after that phone call for things to change.
Cobol makes an attempt to get to Arthur after a botched job. Arthur dodges two attacks before they get him. He’s shot down somewhere in California and Eames doesn’t find out until a week afterwards. He isn’t one for romantic gestures. Getting there a week after he finds out seems good enough to him.
When he gets there, Arthur’s packing his things up in a duffel bag.
Eames doesn’t say anything at first. He watches him, keeping a mental log of the way Arthur carries himself, how he favors his left side. He wants to kiss him quite terribly.
“Come with me,” he suggests, leaning against the doorway. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and takes a drag.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Arthur points out, zipping up the bag.
“Tell them to stop me. See what happens,” he says. Eames waits and watches the slightest quirk form at the edge of Arthur’s mouth, sees a flash of a dimple.
“Come with me,” Eames says again, and this time, Arthur follows.
*
On the car ride home, Eames thinks they might be getting somewhere. Finally.
Eames is completely exhausted from his flight over and Arthur’s in the passenger seat in a hospital gown and a pair of jeans. It isn’t endearing at all. He wants to go home and sleep for the next three weeks, if Arthur would let him. Maybe they’ll fuck some time in between.
Arthur turns the radio up, leans back against the seat and starts singing, and Eames chokes out a laugh.
“Put your head on my shouuuuulder,” he belts out. “Hold me in your arms, baby.”
Eames tosses his cigarette out the window (fuck it, he thinks), drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Squeeze me oh so tight, show me that you love me tooo.”
*
When Arthur’s feeling well enough, they fuck. This time, they do it right.
“I wanted to hit you,” Eames says, sliding his hands under Arthur’s shirt, bunching it up before pulling it off. “That time you told me to fuck you. That I could if I wanted to.” He kisses a trail over his chest, his neck, just under his jaw. “I hated you.”
“I know,” Arthur says, a little breathlessly. “I hated you, too.”
“Why?” Eames asks, pulling off Arthur’s boxers and mouthing against the inside of his thigh.
“I don’t know.”
Eames’ breath hitches and he licks a stripe along Arthur’s hip. “You don’t know anything.”
*
“I’m going back to England for a few weeks,” Eames says, straddling Arthur’s hips. There’s a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and Arthur grabs it, blows smoke into his face. Eames leans in, kisses him furiously, and Arthur pulls away pink-lipped and flushed.
“Why did you let yourself go like that?” Eames is only asking because he doesn’t want it to happen again. Because he doesn’t want the ups and downs of something he can’t comprehend. Because Arthur could be wound up so tightly around his finger or be so far away there’s nothing left. It doesn’t make much sense to him, how Arthur can just float away like a ghost sometimes. But he does. He does, he does.
“I didn’t know how to keep it together,” he admits. “Dom-“ he starts, stops himself because he doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe he doesn’t know how to say it. That much, Eames understands.
“Don’t,” Eames says, pressing a finger to his lips. “I’m sorry I made you throw up that one time,” he grins.
Arthur narrows his eyes, fingers skimming up Eames’ sides. “I’m sorry I hung up on you.”
Eames sits down, takes his cigarette back. “Put your head on my shoulder,” he sing-songs.
Arthur laughs, leans back, watches the way Eames’ lips move against the cigarette. “How do you tolerate that song?” Eames asks bemusedly.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know anything,” Eames whispers affectionately, sliding his cigarette between Arthur’s lips.
fin.
a/n: this is the song they're singing.